Rising From Hell: The Vengeful Heiress Returns

Hester's eyes snapped open.

The harsh glare of the crystal chandelier stabbed into her retinas. She gasped, a ragged, ugly sound. Her lungs burned. Her throat felt tight, constricted by the phantom sensation of a rope that was no longer there. Her heart hammered against her ribs so violently she thought it might crack her sternum.

She was alive.

"Sign it."

The heavy slap of a thick manila folder hitting the marble coffee table shattered the ringing in her ears. The sharp slide of the paper sounded like a blade being drawn.

Hester blinked. Her vision slowly focused.

Domenic Harrison stood over her. His young, handsome face was twisted into a mask of absolute arrogance. He crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at her as if she were dirt on the bottom of his expensive leather shoes.

Hester's fingers curled. Her nails dug so deeply into the velvet sofa cushion that the fabric threatened to tear. A wave of nausea hit her stomach, thick and acidic.

She stared at the man who, in another life, had ordered her bones broken and her reputation shredded.

"I said, sign the annulment agreement, Hester," Domenic demanded, his voice dripping with impatience.

Hester didn't cry. She didn't beg. She didn't collapse into a puddle of tears like she had the first time this happened. The suffocating terror of the noose, the agonizing phantom pain of her past death, suddenly washed away like a receding tide. In its place, an abyssal, freezing rage ignited in her chest. She was no longer the naive lamb waiting for the slaughter. She had returned from hell, and she had brought its fire with her. Instead, she sat up. Very slowly. Her spine straightened until it was rigid. The sudden, dead silence in the room caused the air pressure to drop.

Sitting on the single armchair to her right, Tricia shifted uncomfortably. The other woman pulled a delicate lace handkerchief from her purse and pressed it to her mouth.

A tiny, pathetic sob escaped Tricia's lips.

Domenic's head snapped toward the sound. His hard eyes instantly melted into a pool of sickening tenderness. He reached out, gripping Tricia's shoulder, shifting his body to block Hester's view of her.

Hester watched the performance. Her stomach churned. The bile rose in her throat, burning the back of her mouth, but she swallowed it down.

Domenic turned his head back to Hester. The warmth vanished from his face, replaced by pure ice.

"You are using your family's military backing to hold onto a title that doesn't belong to you," he spat. "You are making a mockery of true love."

Hester lowered her eyes. She looked at the thick document on the table. The bold black letters of the non-disclosure clause stared back at her. Her brain raced, locking onto the timeline. She was sixteen. It was winter.

Tricia stood up. Her stiletto heels clicked against the floor. She walked over to Hester and reached out a trembling hand.

"Hester, please," Tricia whispered, her voice shaking. "Just let us be happy."

Tricia's manicured fingers were an inch from Hester's skin.

Hester violently yanked her arm back. The movement was so sudden, so filled with raw disgust, that Tricia lost her balance and stumbled backward.

"Hey!" Domenic roared. He lunged forward, grabbing Tricia and pulling her behind his back. He pointed a shaking finger right at Hester's face. "You vicious, uneducated bitch!"

Hester slowly raised her head.

Her blue eyes, usually so full of naive adoration, were dead. They were the color of a frozen glacier. She locked her gaze onto Domenic's pupils.

Domenic froze. The unfamiliar, murderous intent in her eyes physically stung him. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. The rest of his insults died on his tongue.

Hester let out a soft laugh.

The sound was quiet, but it pierced the soundproof walls of the White House East Wing sitting room like a needle. It made the hair on the back of Domenic's neck stand up.

She reached out with agonizing slowness and picked up the solid gold fountain pen from the table. She pulled the cap off. The tiny scrape of metal against metal echoed loudly in the tense room.

Tricia's eyes lit up. She leaned out from behind Domenic, watching the tip of the pen, waiting for the signature that would secure her future.

Hester didn't move toward the signature line.

Her wrist snapped down with brutal force. She drove the sharp gold nib of the pen dead center into the annulment agreement.

The thick paper punctured instantly. She dragged her hand downward with all her strength. The metal tip let out a sickening, high-pitched screech as it gouged a long, white gash across the expensive marble table beneath it. The solid gold nib snapped in half from the sheer violence of the motion.

Domenic and Tricia gasped in unison, stepping back.

Hester dropped the ruined pen. It clattered onto the defaced contract. She stood up and smoothed the invisible wrinkles from her skirt. Her movements were as calm and elegant as if she had just sliced a piece of cake.

Domenic's face flushed dark red. He lunged forward to grab her collar.

Hester shot him a look so cold, so heavy with authority, that his feet stopped moving. He stood frozen, his hands hovering in the air.

"The only way this engagement ends," Hester said, her voice a flat, dead monotone, "is if one of us dies."

She turned her back on them and walked straight toward the heavy, carved double doors.

Tricia panicked. She grabbed Domenic's sleeve, tugging it hard. If Hester left now, their secret attempt to force the annulment would be exposed to the First Lady.

Domenic snapped out of his shock. The humiliation of being intimidated by a sixteen-year-old girl burned through his veins, replacing his fear with blind rage. He took off after her.

Hester's hand wrapped around the cold brass doorknob. She heard his heavy footsteps charging up behind her.

A cruel, satisfied smile touched the corners of her mouth.

She yanked the heavy doors open. As she bolted through the frame, her shoulder collided with the heavy brass door handle. The violent motion snagged the delicate clasp of her antique sapphire brooch. It snapped instantly, tumbling silently onto the carpeted hallway outside the room. The biting winter wind from the hallway rushed in, tangling her blonde hair.

The Secret Service agents stationed outside turned their heads immediately.

Hester dropped her chin to her chest. She hunched her shoulders, letting them shake violently, mimicking the posture of a terrified, sobbing girl running for her life. She bolted down the corridor.

"Hester! Stop right there!" Domenic bellowed, bursting out of the room. He completely ignored the shocked stares of the security detail.

Hester reached the corner of the hallway. She glanced back just enough to make sure he was following.

He was. He had taken the bait.

She picked up her pace, heading straight for the exterior doors that led to the South Lawn. She was going to the decorative cold water pool.